“You hate playing widow.”
Again, true. But I’d be damned if I gave him the satisfaction of hearing me admit it.
“So what the fuck is keeping you here?” he asked, genuinely curious now. “What’s got you holding onto this city like it’s ever done a damn thing for you?”
I could have told him.
Icouldhave said my mother was here, that she was sick, that I wasn’t going to uproot my life when she barely had control over hers.
Icouldhave said I was building something, trying to keep myself together, trying tostaytogether.
But instead I just shrugged. “I like the pizza.”
Sebastian was persistent, but he wasn’tdumb. He knew when to push, when to step back, and when towait. And that was what scared me the most. Because the Callahansalwaysgot what they wanted. And Sebastian? He’d never wanted anything he couldn’t have.
Until me.
“Go home,” I said, turning on my heel.
“Come with me,” he called after me, his voice half-teasing, half-serious. “I’ll buy you something pretty.”
I glanced back at him, unamused. “If I wanted something pretty, I’d steal it.”
He watched me walk away, and I knew he was still smirking. I couldfeelit.
But I didn’t turn around, because I knew better. Men like Sebastian Callahan didn’t show up fornothing.He was here because he wanted something—information, leverage, some kind ofin. The Callahans were just as bad as Max. Maybe evenworse.
At least Max was honest about his control. But the Callahans? They dressed their loyalty up like afavor, likeprotection, like somethingsofter than it was. They took care of you, sure. Gave you a place at the table. Made sure you never had to ask for anything. But eventually, you’dowethem.
And they’d pull the same strings Max did. Sebastian was no better than him, and I was already too far along to let myself get tangled up in another leash.
I was halfway there. Halfway to my inheritance. Halfway to finally beingfree.
One slipup could undo months of work, months of tolerating Sasha, months of pretending sobriety actually mattered to me. I wasn’t about to risk it all for Sebastian Callahan, even if his smirk made me feel things I’d rather ignore.
So I walked. Eight blocks. Eight endless, miserable blocks down Lexington in my five-inch heels, passing countless overpriced bodegas that mocked me.
I didn’t bother with a cab. Stubbornness always outweighed common sense for me. By block four, the pain in my feet was so bad I debated tossing the shoes entirely. They were nice shoes—Sebastian’s favorite, ironically—but they were currently carving permanent scars into my feet.
By block seven, my toes were numb, the wind had turned brutal, and my coat wasn’t doing a damn thing to shield me from it. But I kept moving, because the alternative was crawling back to Sebastian’s car, admitting defeat, and giving him one more reason to smirk at me.
By the time I’d reached my building, I was already reaching for my keys, running through the mental list of things I needed to do: wash my face, take off these damn shoes, sleep for a year.
But then I stopped.
There was a man sitting on my steps. His head was bowed between his shoulders, arms resting on his knees, with a Marlboro between his fingers.
I walked all the way up to him, stopping just short, my Manolos inches from his shoes. My fingers curled around my keys, my grip tightening.
“What are you doing here,lawyer?”
He looked up.
I tilted my head, watching him for a second before speaking. “The strays usually find a home on the other side of town.”
“Where are you coming from?” he asked, ignoring my comment.
“A meeting.”
